


I'm ... sorry?

by DualWieldingCousland (DualWieldingMama)



Series: The Other Regan [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4109095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DualWieldingMama/pseuds/DualWieldingCousland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regan makes an effort to pack up the Chargers’ rooms after losing them during the dreadnaught incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm ... sorry?

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been hesitant to post this, largely because I’m not really sure if I handled Krem properly in response to Regan apologizing for basically asking if Krem was a woman when she was properly introduced to the Chargers. As I’ve never really been in his shoes, I tried to keep it as unoffensive as possible.

Regan sighed as she shoved open the door to the room Dalish and Skinner shared. Skyhold was starting to fill up and they could no longer let usable rooms sit empty. She had put it off as long as she could, but they needed the Chargers’ rooms. Bull had volunteered to help, to take the room Stitches and Rocky used, but she’d said no. This was something she had to do herself. It was her fault they were gone. The room shared by Krem and Grim was now being occupied by the unconscious Krem and the pack of healers assigned to him ‘round the clock. 

Without a sound, she started crating up things scattered about – clothes, books, weapons. The dressers were mostly empty; very few people in the Inquisition had a lot of clothes. The few tunics and trousers she found appeared to have belonged to Skinner. Dalish’s few bits of clothes hung alongside her armor, next to the stand holding Skinner’s. The clothes could be passed out among the refugees; there was always a need for clothes. It was possible the armor could be used by some of their scouts, or repurposed … if Bull didn’t object. 

She wasn’t sure how Qunari handled death, or how Bull would handle these deaths specifically. As much as he tried to hide it, she knew he was still hurting from the loss. She was too. No matter what anyone else said, she knew it was her fault Krem was badly hurt and the others were gone. If she had just made the choice to have Bull signal the retreat instead, none of this would be necessary.

She kept finding small throwing blades as she worked. Tiny ones secured behind the mirror, slightly larger ones slid under furniture or tucked in drawers with hidden bottoms. When did they get furniture with hidden bottoms? Where did they get furniture with hidden bottoms? Did Josephine know about this? Why didn’t she have furniture with hidden bottoms? Or did she? Regan frowned as she placed blade upon blade in another box. She wanted to see if Bull minded her keeping a few.

She found some children’s toys, much to her surprise. There were a couple animal-shaped puzzles, a replica of a Qunari dreadnaught … a windup soldier. What were children’s toys doing here? She looked the soldier over carefully, noticing an R carved into one foot, an S carved into the other.

There were more books than she’d expected; neither had claimed to be an avid reader. They were all thin and crudely bound. Pages were near crumpled, some torn at the edges, some shoved under furniture. None of the covers held titles, or even an indication of the authors. They looked nothing like any of the books Regan had seen in the libraries in Skyhold, or even in Haven. Curious, she flipped one open … and felt her stomach sink.

Staring back at her was a near life-like image of Krem, smiling awkwardly. She flipped to another page – Bull laughing. Another page, then another – Stitches and Grim, then Rocky and Skinner. She grabbed another book. Cassandra, Harding, Sera … Cole, Dorian … Cullen; they were all captured in charcoal on the parchment. The book fell from her hands as she found her own face staring back at her. Her chest suddenly felt too tight, too heavy. She dropped to her knees. Her heart hurt as she thought back to an evening that felt so long ago, not long after Bull had first sat her down for a drink with the Chargers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Krem?” Regan fidgeted as she approached the Charger in his usual spot. She cast a glance over at Bull, relieved to see he was distracted by a pair of Cabot’s serving wenches. She was uncomfortable enough without the added pressure of him watching her make a fool of herself. “Can I … can I talk to you for a moment?”

Krem looked up from the parchment he had been reading and nodded. “What can I do for you, Your Worship?” He watched her curiously; she seemed far more unsure than the last time he’d seen her in the tavern – the evening Bull had introduced her to the Chargers. “Everything alright?” 

That was the problem, wasn’t it; she wasn’t sure everything was alright. She had said some things … asked some things the last time they spoke that had sounded fine in her head, but came out all wrong when she spoke. At the time, no one had seemed terribly offended, least of all Krem, but Regan worried afterwards that maybe they were just hiding their true feelings because she was the Inquisitor. “I … don’t know, really,” she finally sighed, running her fingers through her hair distractedly. “I … wanted to apologize?” 

“Is that a question?” Krem smiled, trying to set the woman at ease. He had no clue why she was acting so hesitant. She was usually much more relaxed. 

She sighed, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. Blast it all, why didn’t she wait until the tavern was empty? “No.” She tried leaning against the wall next to him and rubbed her forehead. “I …. Some of the things I asked the other night may have been … may have come across as rude and I … wanted to apologize.” There was little else she could think of to say without repeating what she had asked or saying something that would come across equally rude. “It wasn’t my intention to ….” 

Krem just smiled, accepted the apology without comment. At least she was making an effort. Some people simply became little more than bullies when they discovered what he was … or was not packing … beneath his clothes. In all honesty, as long as she treated him, and the rest of the Chargers, with respect, he was good. 

They chatted for a while, Krem telling a few stories from his youth, both before he was able to live as he was and after. While he spoke, he fidgeted with the winged nug he had been making. He rubbed the back of his head and laughed when she asked how he’d learned to sew. “My mother taught me when I was young. I think it was her last ditch effort to deny what I’d been telling her.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“She was never happy that I wasn’t what she wanted me to be,” Krem explained with a shrug. “Teaching me to sew and knit was the last thing she tried to convince me that I was her little girl. I was ten, I think.” He glanced down at the nug and smiled sadly. “I took to the sewing and knitting fine, but I still knew who I was, and it wasn’t that. I don’t know if she ever really accepted it, but after that, she stopped fighting it.” He tossed a completed nug to her. “Now, I do it to relax after a mission, or when I’m bored.” 

“Mother always tried to teach me how to do this,” Regan sighed, looking the small creature over. “I never could get the hang of it and it drove her crazy.”

“I could give you a couple pointers,” Krem offered, motioning for one of the serving wenches’ attention to get another drink. “I can’t promise I’ll be any better of a teacher than your mother, but I promise not to go crazy if you don’t get it. Besides, it’s good to have something creative as an outlet; something the Chief actually insists on.”

“So what do the others do? I’m assuming they don’t all make stuffed nugs like you?”

Krem grinned, shook his head before glancing around. He was pretty sure at least a couple of the Chargers wouldn’t want the entire tavern to know what they did to cool off … that didn’t involve losing one’s clothes anyway. “Not a one of them. Closest any of them come is Stitches. He embroiders. I keep telling him it’s not really a way to relax if it’s that close to what he normally does, but all he says is ‘I know it’s not a stretch, but it keeps me in practice for when I need it. And you’re always damned glad I have a steady hand when I’m stitching you up.’. He has a point, too.” 

Regan giggled at the fairly dead-on impression of the Charger’s medic. Something else her mother had once tried to teach her, and failed. Needles smaller than her favorite throwing daggers did not fare well in her hands. 

“Dalish draws.” At the surprised look on her face, he nodded. “I know. It caught me off guard the first time I saw one of her completed pictures. She’s amazing with a piece of charcoal. I’d wager her portraits are just as good as any you’d see in a noble’s home. Her landscapes aren’t too bad, either. 

“Grim writes. I’m not sure exactly what he writes, but he writes. I’m pretty sure he keeps his stuff under his pillow, but I’m not about to go snooping around his room. He’d likely have Skinner after my hide. 

“Rocky and Skinner make things; no other word for it, really. Sometimes it’s a wooden toy, with moving parts, for a kid. Sometimes it’s a tool for something that no one had seen before. Sometimes, I don’t think even they know what they make. But together, or working separately, they’ve crafted a lot of things. I’ve seen some of the kids running around here with their creations.” 

“And you?” she asked, tossing the nug back to him. “Is all you make nugs? And what about Bull; does he do anything crafty?” 

He laughed, shaking his head. “I still don’t know what the Chief does to relax. Whatever he does, he keeps it quiet.” He glanced over his shoulder and watched as Bull led the two women he’d been flirting with toward the stairs. “So to speak. As for me, the nug thing is kind of a running joke with the Chief. He wants to load the catapults with them at some point. I’m pretty sure he has a chest full of them by now. But I can make other things. One of these days, when I’m not forced to make nugs, I will probably make a new scarf or two. It gets chilly up here some days.” 

“Why don’t you take a break from the nugs and start on the scarf now?” Regan mused, biting her lip. “I’d like to give it another shot, since I won’t have my mother breathing down my neck this time. And if I can get the hang of it, maybe I could make the scarves for you all while you deal with the nugs?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Bull found her, hours later, sitting on her knees, staring at a sketch of Haven’s lake. Her cheeks were wet, tears still flowing freely. Crates of things - books, fabric, toys - surrounded her. She didn’t fight when he tried helping her up; just held up another sketch – one Dalish had done of all the Chargers, with Bull. She knew he’d want it, but couldn’t make the words work. She heard what might have been a sniffle, felt one large arm around her, hugging her to him. Without missing a beat, she wrapped her arms around him as best she could, buried her face in his chest. No sounds, but two bodies shuddering with stifled sobs, clinging to one another, hoping that it was all just a bad dream, knowing it wasn’t.


End file.
